


Grapefruit

by ChaoticBlades



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Descriptions of Meat, Canon-Typical Jon Not Respecting His Own Boundaries, Do Not Archive, Grey-Ace Jon, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Sensory Overload, Sex Neutral Jon, Skinless Wieners, Touch-Starved, Weird Historical In-Jokes, Weird smut, a little sounding (as a treat? not for jon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24943015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticBlades/pseuds/ChaoticBlades
Summary: Jon's first day in his new living situation.
Relationships: Breekon & Hope/Jonathan Sims, Danny Stoker/Jonathan Sims, Nikola Orsinov/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sarah Baldwin/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	Grapefruit

**Author's Note:**

> You can tell I'm internet-old because I called this "Grapefruit".

Georgie often received packages—new equipment for her podcast, merchandise, gifts from fans, and, more recently, things for Jon himself, given his only recently revoked status as a fugitive. It was for that reason he thought nothing of opening the door when the buzzer came through. Of stepping past the building's threshold to greet the pair of deliverymen. They were, after all, _just_ deliverymen. Not notable in any way.

"'Scuse us—"

"—are you Jonathan Sims?"

Notable in _one_ way, perhaps, but even he wasn't so far up his own arse not to see the hypocrisy in judging them for putting on an accent.

"Yeah, wh—" he started to reply, before bothering to take a closer look.

_Generic deliverymen._

_Inauthentic cockney._

The van, damningly emblazoned with a mud-splattered and peeling _Breekon & Hope Deliveries!_, was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak.

Jon barely got out a curse before a rock-like fist was buried in his gut.

"Miss Orsinov wants to see you."

"She says she changed her mind."

He gibbered something out, too caught up in panic to effectively fight back.

(He could almost hear Tim laugh at the suggestion that Jonathan Sims could effectively fight back against anything, panicked or otherwise.)

The door closed, the engine started, and he was left alone— _not alone enough_ —in the dark interior, squeezed between a loading ramp and a coffin that prickled at his awareness.

 _Statement of Vincent Yang regarding his claimed imprisonment by Mikaele Salesa_ , his brain ever-so-helpfully provided.

"Oh, god."

* * *

By the time he thought to commit the stops and turns to memory, he was long since disoriented.

By the time he was forced to relieve himself into a forgotten box of packing peanuts, he could no longer deny that they'd left London.

By the time the engine rumbled off, he'd resigned himself to the dearth of weaponizable items.

"None of that now—" one began, catching Jon as he attempted to fling himself past them.

"—awful rude, ducking out on your host—"

"—after we rolled out the welcome wagon—"

"Right you are, Hope!"

Face crushed as it was into Hope's chest, he couldn't get a look at their destination any more than he could ignore the lack of a heartbeat. He could barely even struggle. More of a wiggle, really, which only served to highlight the awkward pose his body was trapped in: head bent sharply back, one arm pinning his shoulders in place, the other hooked around the backs of his knees to press them past his ears. He felt like an inchworm caught in a beak.

The building they entered was dark and smelled strongly of dust and unscented wax, though a note of iron made itself known as they progressed deeper into the Stranger's sanctum. Deeper and lower, the bounce of each stair jostling his neck. Deeper, deeper, deeper, until only Breekon's grunts of exertion and the screech of dragging chains could tamp down the sudden, hysterical thought that they'd entered into the coffin.

"Where are you taking me?!" he tried to demand around a mouthful of cheap cotton. The shirt's lack of sweat was less of a relief than it should have been.

The two didn't so much as pause in their disjointed theorizing about what he had a sneaking suspicion was the latest episode of _The Archers_. At least, not until the bubbly voice of Nikola Orsinov came echoing towards them.

"—no, no, it would be _much_ better to pose them like so! You agree, right? Of _course_ you do!"

At least there were no more stairs. _Much_ better to die on level ground.

"Ah, and if it isn't the man of the hour! Hel~ _lo_ , Archivist!"

Silence.

It cleared its throat. And, when that prompted no reply, again, insistently.

"...Hello, Nikola," he mumbled. He wasn't sure how far 'playing along' would get him, given his current state of affairs, but he didn't have many other options.

"So _lovely_ to see you again!" it trilled, running a hand over the steep arch of his spine, "I must say, if I'd known before that you had _such potential_ as a contortionist...! No matter, I _did_ always like to **stay flexible**!" It giggled, patting him on the backside like a prized show pony.

"Good one, Miss!"

"Should I bend him the other way?"

Hope didn't wait for an answer, shifting his arm to grip Jon by the nape and _yank_ him as far back as he could bend and then some.

Jon let out a bark of pain.

" _Ooh,_ _very_ nicely done, Archivist! It gives me so much to think about!"

From his new vantage point, he could see they stood in the middle of an amphitheatre of sorts, dim but for the stage lighting and messy with circus paraphernalia. There were a number of what he hesitated to call 'bad' waxworks, as that would imply there was such thing as the inverse. And there, in the center of it all, was an electric chair, the fake sort that might appear as a novelty attraction in an old travelling show. At least he hoped so, given the coils of rope already slotted into place at the back and legs.

"Like—like what?" he asked Nikola's knees. They were smartly clad in tan riding breeches, past which could be seen the bright red points of its coattails.

"Like how I'm going to divvy out your bits, silly! I was _going_ to use them for the Choir, but the _danzatori_ could also do with some sprucing up—" It paused. "Oh, that was _naughty_ , Archivist, asking your questions without so much as a how-do-you-do. And after I've been so _friendly!_ "

"My apologies," Jon sneered, gaspy from the strain of his forced contortion, "How _do_ you do, Orsinov? Find any good taxidermy lately?"

The mannequin's rouged lips and accompanying beauty mark, static and blank though they were, gave the impression of a pout. " _No_ , and it's put me in a dreadful mood! I've been to every pawn shop on this miserable little island, and do you know what I have to show for it?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

" _Pheasants!_ " it continued, as if he'd not bothered interrupting at all, "Just the same _ugly_ birds nailed to fake wood, and a deluge to ruin my makeup!"

"Dreadful indeed," he replied, eyeing the mismatched reds of its lips and coat.

"It's like no one appreciates the _artistry_ of _corpses_ anymore! Why, I remember one **special** occasion when my father took me to Paris for the most _marvelous_ exhibition—that Brunetti was _inspired_ , a shame his own skin wasn't so _supple_ —"

Silence.

As the gentle burn fizzled from his tongue, Jon very suddenly recalled how asking questions of these creatures usually went for him. "I-I didn't mean to—please don't kill me!"

Of all the details to focus on, it was the shimmer of its epaulettes' fringe that caught his eye as Nikola bent stiffly at the waist, at least until they were face to face; a wet gleam at its throat drew him first to the bow tie, then the tube of flesh it held in place. It wasn't until it began to vibrate that he realised what, precisely, he was looking at: a human larynx. He was too busy fighting down his gorge to process anything that was said.

When he was passingly confident he wouldn't be sick, he asked, "S-sorry, could you repeat that?"

It tutted, though how it could have done so without mouth, tongue, or palate was beyond him. "The gag it is!"

"No, wait—!"

"Oh? What's this now? A tape recorder? How _retro!_ "

* * *

Jon had known better than to hope that Nikola was joking about the lotion, yet still managed to be disappointed when Breekon and Hope returned with enough plastic bags to do in an entire species of turtle. Laying the coffin down, they piled it with bottles and jars as if it were a vanity. A bottle of Olay cheerfully proclaimed itself to have five essential oils, while another simply stated itself to be RIGHTEOUS BUTTER. Dove Skin Revival, store brand baby lotion, 'deep moisture comfort balm', Vaseline, Bio-Oil gel, 'magic cream' attributed to the Ancient Egyptians, shea butter and cocoa butter and almond butter, scented, unscented, _For Kids!_ , prescription strength—there wasn't a doubt in his mind that the two had chosen the products at random.

"Seaweed and Bergamot 'to hydrate and improve skin elasticity'," Hope read to Nikola, all but preening at her approval.

"What about this one?" Breekon interjected, "'Lavender paired with musk and cardamom for smooth, sensual skin'."

" _Oo~ooh_ , they both sound delightful! Any thoughts, Archivist?"

"Piss off, for one," he said as clearly as he could around the gag.

"Excellent idea! One on each side, that way we know for **sure** which is better! So _academic,_ your Elias must be proud!"

He was untied.

Any thought of running was quickly discarded as his legs dissolved into jelly. Breekon and Hope arranged his body upright, limbs splayed like an unfavored doll, for Nikola's benefit. The mannequin briefly wrestled with his buttons before ripping all of his clothes to shreds in a fit of temper.

("Don't! Be! So! Glum!" it said, mushing his cheeks together, "This way we won't have to undress you every time! _Besides_ , what do you need with trousers anyway? Soon enough you'll be a costume yourself, and how strange would it be for a skirt to wear trousers?" It gave a trilling laugh.

He tried and failed to maneuver his tongue around the gag. "I'd have thought that would be right up your alleyway."

"Never fear, I'll have Sarah fetch you a blanket to keep you nice and toasty. Wouldn't want to get chapped from the cold!"

"You realise I'll need to eat at some point, right?"

"Yes, a commemorative photo _would_ be nice!")

Even when he could move again, Jon kept very still within the confines of their crushing grip. He could already feel bruises starting.

Rather than jump straight into the moisturising, his captors escorted him to a side room, where a pair of indistinguishable mannequins were filling an old clawfoot tub with oatmeal and steamy water. Despite Nikola's running commentary in the background, Jon couldn't hold in a sigh of comfort. It had been a very long time since he'd afforded himself more than a quick, cold shower, and the water soaked into his strained joints, weak lower back, and all the other aches he'd learned to ignore.

 _It's only this once. Elias will send the others to get me out of this debacle before they have another chance._ Or so he used to justify going limp and silent beneath soft, luxury sponges. Closing his eyes and trying to appear as if he wasn't luxuriating in being cared for. _They_ want _me to be afraid. If anything, enjoying this is the best vengeance I can hope for at this point._

"Such a pretty shade of olive," sighed Nikola, pausing at his collar to admire the contrast with its stark white plastic, "So much better than that musty old skin!"

He hummed, more in response to the hands combing through his hair than to the compliment.

A finger lightly traced the rim of one of his worm scars. "Leave it to the Crawling Rot to mark up a perfectly good piece! Well, it adds _personality_ anyway, not to mention goes with these!" The fingertip ran down to his chest and tweaked a nipple. "Hmmm... you know, that _just might work_. Sure, I won't get my **f** **rock** , but you're all bones anyway, aren't you! I could make the dress out of your _little assistants_ and fold _you_ up into a bustle!"

He went cold.

"I do so hope you're not the only one the worms got to of your lot," it continued, scrubbing blithely away, " _Polkadots_ are _gauche_ when it's just the one item, don't you think, Archivist? Oh, what if I used your hair for trim?! We could really **do** something here, give _burlesque_ a try, so long as we're updating anyway!"

As it lifted a hand free of the water, Jon leaned forward to catch the gag on its fingers, finally jostling it free. " _Stay the hell away from_ my _assistants._ " His voice had gone gravelly—well, more so than usual—from dryness.

It merely laughed and dumped water over his head.

* * *

Jon had not behaved for the rest of his bath or drying. The result?

Breekon behind him, scooping his arms out of the way from below the shoulder whilst pressing his torso forward with a knee.

Nikola and Sarah Baldwin kneeling between his thighs and calves respectively, massaging lotion into his skin with more gentleness than he'd expected from inorganic creatures.

Hope at the ready to pin an unruly leg or else jerk him into position.

With his gag firmly in place and Nikola's endless chatter turned to the specifics of the moisturising regimen, he once again was poised to be overwhelmed by sensation. Whether intentionally or otherwise, his masseurs were excising the knots that came part and parcel with his terrible posture and other bad habits. Even the hold, which by all rights should have been excruciating, was more a satisfying burn than anything else. It recalled the rare encounter that he'd enjoyed back in uni, usually when his partner talked him around to indulging his submissive side. 'A firm hand and a gentle touch', as Georgie used to say.

As his foot arched in Sarah's overstuffed flesh, he snorted internally at how literal that phrase had become.

Nikola, meanwhile, had lost focus mid-scolding, too intent upon rubbing lotion into every crevice of his nipples, a number that grew the more it teased them. Jon had almost been relieved at his libido's apparent lack of interest in what was being done to him when, deep within his gut, a ribbon of sharp heat floundered for want of more.

_Oh no._

"Uh, Nikola? He feels feverish," Sarah commented. She didn't sound particularly concerned.

_Why now?_

"Does he? _Are_ you feeling feverish, Archivist?"

He growled out a negative.

"His cheeks are nicely flushed...," said Nikola, shifting to one knee.

_Don't look down._

"Is that a tumor or something? He smokes, right?"

_Dammit!_

Hope and Nikola followed her pointed finger to his groin, which was then subjected to three sets of intrigued eyes (and the vague depressions that the mannequin did not seem to having any problem seeing out of).

"That's... hm. I feel like I knew what this was once." Nikola prodded it. "Must be leftovers from Grimaldi." With an aggrieved sigh, it rose and scurried off into the gloom.

He wasn't quite able to close his legs before Sarah could scoot in, the odor of cloves and sawdust making his eyes water.

She pinched one of his balls, testing the texture and give, and muttered, "Sure _looks_ like a tumor."

"Hate to contradict you, Miss—" began Breekon.

"—but we've got them things too," Hope finished, unbuckling his belt. Once his shirt was lifted and trousers were undone, a fascinus slipped through of its own weight. Like many of its ilk, it was stout and comically long, with an exaggerated head and wings. As Jon watched, the wings flapped vigorously, as if trying to escape. All they managed, however, was to jiggle the scrotum, revealing it to be a pair of bulbous, lactating breasts. He couldn't tear his eyes away.

Sarah made a doubtful noise.

There was a rustling behind him, but he was too, well, _fascinated_ to investigate. In the end, though, he didn't need to, for he was lifted just long enough for Breekon to free his own, then settled back in place, this time on Breekon's lap. The phallus towered over Jon's cock and ended in a fist arranged into a fig. Somehow, having two places to focus on broke whatever spell they had him under. Not that it helped; in his attempt to break free, he only managed to rut up against the not-flesh, streaking it with the sheen of precum.

"See?"

"He's leaking from the wrong place," she observed, teasing another drop out of his slit, "Wrong color too."

 _What could you_ possibly _find arousing about this?!_ Jon scolded himself. If anything, the shame made him heat up more.

It wasn't _good._ One moment they were tugging loose skin to see how far it would stretch, the next they were squeezing to see how much precum could be wrung out in one go. Sarah, determined to solve the mystery of his 'unnatural' equipment, shifted enough sawdust from her finger to her palm that she might work it into his urethra. Its texture was of an elongated raisin, too dry for comfort but grooved in an unsettlingly pleasing way. Hope wanted to see how much lotion could fit inside but thankfully got distracted by Jon's lack of scrotum nipples.

("It's not right!" he insisted, rolling Jon's balls for emphasis, "What's even the point of them?"

"Maybe it's like those duck-beavers on the telly? He sweats it out?"

"Look at you—a proper egghead! Leaving us for the Eye, Breekon?"

"And miss out on your milk? Never!"

A tongue swipe later, they confirmed that he did not, in fact, lactate through his testes. Hope pressed his against Jon's gag until his disgust-wrinkled face indicated it had seeped through, claiming it would "teach him how it was done".)

It _wasn't_ good.

But it _was_ all he'd had in a long time. And while Jon could box away his loneliness behind a wall of prickly reclusion, his body had no such defense.

The door slammed open.

"Well, Archivist, you're in luck!" cried Nikola, sprawling in Jon's chair like it was a throne, "I found us an expert! He told me _all_ about your condition and is here to help!" It paused. "Oh, put that thing _away_ , Breekon. We don't need any distractions!"

"An expert," he mumbled back.

_Christ, if it's one of those damn anatomy students...._

It beat out a drum roll against the arms of the chair. "Give it up for... _whatever-his-name-was_!"

In entered a flayed man.

Jon choked on his saliva.

There was a wetness to his movements, despite his blood seeming to be well-contained within his musculature; the sound of raw meat pulled taut, then released, accompanied the slap of skinless feet against the floor. The bones, too, creaked as they flashed white through the gaps in his tissue.

Stymied from his instinct to scramble backwards, Jon desperately searched for someplace safe to gawk at.

The eyes.

He knew those eyes.

("They're not _brown_ , they're _amber_ ," Tim protested, batting his eyelashes in a manner Martin _claimed_ made them 'dance with golden light', "One of the rarest colors in the world.")

The man took Sarah's place.

 _So she can 'study' with the others_ , he realised as they all leaned in. He slammed his thighs up and closed, only to recoil when they brushed against the creature between them.

Who proceeded to shush him.

> "All the world's a stage,
> 
> And all the men and women merely players;
> 
> They have their exits and their entrances"

Jon blinked.

"Do you understand, Archivist?" The man's eyes were kind, his voice operatic. "There's no hope for you and there never was. You _will_ die, Jonathan Sims, but if you perform your role well, roses may rain down at your feet. So, how do you choose?" His hand hovered in front of the gag.

Jon wanted to lash out, to kick and yell and spit in his eye, but instead he bowed his head in submission, because more than anything he wanted to _know_. What would happen? What would his reward be? Why did Tim's eyes stare out at him?

The man gave a smile that might have been beautiful if not for the lack of skin. "It's a pleasure working with you, Jon. My name is Danny." Fingers followed the gag to its knot and unbound it, massaging the divots it left in his cheeks.

"...Hello, Danny." He didn't dare ask for any clarifying details so soon after gaining this small liberty.

Turning briefly to confirm his audience's attention, Danny placed a hand on Jon's sternum. "Humans like touch... and when they like it enough...." He slid it down, leaving shivers in its wake. "...This happens." He cupped Jon's erection with something approaching reverence.

"So it's not a tumor?"

Jon glared at her. "Try not to sound so put— _ngh!_ "

Danny circled the head with a finger and continued, "Giving him what he wants will release beneficial chemicals, not to mention that semen is good for the skin."

"A common myth," he said tartly, angry so that he wouldn't have space left for fear, "perpetuated by cheap gossip magazines."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hope dejectedly put his fascinus away.

At first, the flayed hand on his cock reminded him of grapefruit pulp, with muscle and veins in place of juice sacs and strings. Fleshy lumps slotted together into a greater whole, yet still capable of independently catching on every contour. Even without proper lubrication, it was moist, almost slimy. Like a frog.

Or raw chicken.

Was it blood seeping through per abrasions? Or maybe fat that was missed by the scalpel? Regardless, as the hand glided up and down, the bundle of exposed veins pulsed in time to the quickening motion, giving the impression of being drawn down a too-small gullet. Narrow bones pressed in like the bones of a corset. Jon couldn't help but buck into those warm, wet ridges. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was a novelty toy.

(Tim had goaded him into it once, back when they were still friends and they'd had one too many at a staff party—some violently purple thing he'd found online. In the end, all he'd needed to do was remind Jon that it was an experience he'd otherwise never get. Was that why he'd used it right then and there, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the restroom, his only friend grinning and biting his lip?)

Danny ground the heel of his palm into the base of the head. His veins pulsed.

Jon gasped and clutched at air.

"You can let him go now—yeah, just like that," Danny said to Breekon, prompting him to lower Jon until he had him leaning against his lower torso, "Play with his nipples too."

"Th-that's really unnecess— _ahhn!_ " He dug his nails into Breekon's trouser legs. The hands on his chest continued rolling and pulling and scratching.

"That's it, then?" asked Nikola, "You're just doing the same thing over and over. Won't he get _bored?_ I know I have."

Danny paused. His eyes flicked to the lotion collection.

"I guess you'll—you'll just have to stop?" Jon tried, even as he watched Danny reach for a jar of shea butter. "I mean—I mean, I wouldn't want you getting—getting _bored._ "

The soft scrape of a lid unscrewing.

As if he'd said nothing at all, Danny coated his fingers and slid them down the shaft, taking a moment to squeeze the balls before pressing into the perineum.

Mid-kick, Jon's legs fell to the ground, the better to arch into the touch. He moaned, deep and long.

" _Ooh_ , now **that** sounded _exciting._ "

Danny lifted Jon's hips to rest on his folded legs, having to pin them there with a hand when they began to slide down the slick muscle. "The prostate. This is the easiest way to reach it." He massaged the sensitive skin, making sporadic deeper sweeps to tease the gland.

Somewhere along the way, Jon's legs hooked around the other's torso, which he only became aware of when they strained for more contact during a pause to reapply the butter. Before he could even think to release them, Danny's spare hand, now freed of the burden of keeping him in place, pumped his cock, sending his thoughts tumbling away from him all over again.

"The **easiest** way, you say?"

The hand on his cock slipped back down to stroke his arse. His cleft. His hole.

His breath caught. A cruel twist of his nipples set his chest back to heaving. Arousal squirmed through him.

"You have to go slowly, gently," murmured Danny, working the first finger in as soon as the butter had warmed, "It won't feel good if you're impatient. And if it doesn't feel good...."

"...no 'beneficial chemicals'," Nikola tutted.

Flopping onto its stomach beside them, it occupied itself with tracing the blood vessels of his scrotum as far up as they went. Sarah joined it on the other side, mimicking the earlier handjob. The two fumbled around each other, all but ensuring he wouldn't enjoy it enough to orgasm before Danny managed to loosen him up. But touch was still touch, and it had been a long time since he'd had an excess of it; not since Georgie, who quickly realised he wasn't nearly as into the act as he tried to fool her (and himself) he was. If it was just the two exploring his cock, he might have been able to lose interest, thereby making _them_ lose interest. But.

But Danny was _good_.

He never gave Jon more than he could comfortably handle, easing him open with the patience of a sculptor. Each thrust, each stretch, each crook of the finger was calculated. When he slipped more in, it was so gradual Jon barely noticed. All he could do was lay there, panting, as his senses blurred in the face of a rarely-felt hunger. Danny's fingers dug deeper, stroked circles into his core—

**Sparks.**

Jon keened, writhed into and away from the terrible, wonderful burn. If the Strangers had anything to say about the change, it was lost to the dizzying pleasure that scattered his thoughts like maple seeds. His head lolled, tensed—

—and he watched as Danny shifted them so that he could lave at his balls, kissing his way down his cock—

—a hand in his arse and another teasing his cockhead—

—mouths on his neck, mouths on his chest—

—legs tightening, not close enough, _never_ close enough—

The tide swelled.

He gave a protracted groan.

His eyelashes fluttered.

And Nikola's not-face was the last sight before he sank, boneless and exhausted, into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> *hapless American switching z's to s's* DON'T LIKE, NO SIR, NOT FOR ME.
> 
> EDIT: ffs, i may have started this in june but it wasnt posted then. hopefully adding this bumps it to the proper date?


End file.
